


you make it so easy (to fall so hard)

by Khintress



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, alistair is a templar recruit with a bad habit of ruining his equipment, exasperation and fluff ensues, lenora and ariah are smiths in denerim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khintress/pseuds/Khintress
Summary: “What can I do for you?” She finally heaves out, fighting the overwhelming urge to straighten her tunic, or fix her hair, or rub the smeared ash from her face. Maker’s breath, she’s a mess! He’s there and she’s a mess who doesn’t even have a clean face, and it doesn’t matter – except that it does, because he’s gorgeous.Lenora has enough work to keep her busy for the next eight months - she doesn't need a handsome Templar interrupting her every three days with the same broken sword. But there he is, and here she is, and for the life of her, she just can't say no.





	you make it so easy (to fall so hard)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short lil AU I wrote two or three years ago that's just been sitting in my documents since then. Doing some cleaning and figured I'd share. Fair warning, I know absolutely nothing about smithing! I'm just here for the pining. Enjoy!

                “Do you have that breastplate for Ser Cormick? He’s pacing in the market.”

                “Who?”

                “Cormick. Tall, freckled, nervous.”

                Ariah waves a hand, her eyes never leaving the shipping manifest as Lenora sighs.

                “Frantic twitching.”

                “ _Oh,_ the shaky kid?” She glances up for a moment, just long enough to see her partner nod. “In the back, next to the greatsword for the grumpy woman.”

                “Cauthrian.”

                “What?” Ariah asks sharply, cocking a harsh, blonde eyebrow at the parchment as she returns to her work.

                “Ser Cauthrian, the grumpy woman.” Lenora supplies, crossing her arms in amusement.

                “What about her?”

                “This is why you don’t speak with the customers.”

                Then, as if summoned, the bell above the door rings, signalling an incoming commission. Lenora turns to greet them as Ariah rolls her eyes and continues her inventory.

                “Welcome to the Steel Maiden. We have the finest – ” She smiles brightly, but the words on her tongue catch behind her teeth as she looks at the man standing at the door. He shuffles his feet nervously, offering an awkward smile as she fumbles over her introduction.

                He’s gorgeous. It’s…well, it’s not fair, frankly.

                “What can I do for you?” She finally heaves out, fighting the overwhelming urge to straighten her tunic, or fix her hair, or rub the smeared ash from her face. Maker’s breath, she’s a mess! He’s there and she’s a mess who doesn’t even have a clean face, and it doesn’t _matter_ – except that it does, because he’s gorgeous.

                “I, uh, I need a repair. My sword is, uh, well – ” He clears his throat, straightening his back and somehow standing taller than he already is. “I was told to bring it here.”

                “Told?” Ariah scoffs, lifting her eyes from the parchment to see what has Lenora so out-of-sorts. She never trips over her words, and she _always_ finishes the introduction. The man is handsome, she supposes, in a human sort of way; too boyish for her tastes. “By whom?”

                “Tavish – _er_ , Knight-Commander Tavish.”

                “Are you a Templar, then?” The elf inquires.

                “A recruit,” The man insists, as though the proper title may actually offend him.

                “Don’t you have armories of your own?”

                “Ariah!”

                “Well! Why not just replace the blade?”

                “I may or may not have made a rather snide comment on the quality of the Order’s weapons.”

                Ariah snorts, a smirk upon her lips as she strikes an order off the manifest.

                “A cheeky Templar; I didn’t think they made those.”

                “Recruit,” He repeats. “Templar recruit.”

                “I’ll write up a work order,” Lenora interrupts, taking the bundle from his arms and returning to the counter. She sets the blade down, unwraps it gingerly and takes a look at the damage. The end has been broken off, likely by another sword, and she does the calculations in her head. She rewraps the pieces and gives Ariah a swift thwack on the head before grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill. The elf only laughs, giving the woman an all-knowing glance that sends Lenora on the defensive. “Can I get your name?”

                “Theirin,” He answers too quickly, his nerves getting the best of him. “Alistair Theirin.”

                “Well, Ser Theirin,”

                “Just Alistair is fine, really.”

                Lenora nods politely, trying not to let her eyes linger on the way his fingers run through his golden hair or the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles.

                “I can take the blade and have it ready for you this evening.”

                “Thank you,” He heaves a breath of relief, his grin so wide that Lenora feels her breath catch in her throat. “Thank you.”

                “You’re quite welcome,” Lenora can’t help but smile back, and Ariah coughs obnoxiously as Alistair excuses himself from the smithy. The woman’s gaze dwells on the door before she curtly addresses her business partner again. “What?”

                “Don’t you have a greatsword to detail for Ser Grumpy this evening?”

                “I can do both.” Lenora assures, ignoring the curious glint in her partner’s eye.

                “What happened to order of commission?”

                “ _I can do both_.”

                “I will remember this as the day Lenora Cousland broke her own rules for a handsome Templar.”

                “Templar _recruit_. And I am not breaking my own rules.”   

                “You’re done for.”

                “Shut up, Ariah.”

* * *

                “So, how’s Arryn doing with the forge?”

                “She’s not.” Ariah responds abruptly, almost frantic. “She is not allowed near the forge. She is not allowed in the same room as the forge. She is not allowed on the same floor as the forge.”

                “That bad?” Lenora asks, arching a dark eyebrow as she remembers how eager and excited the young woman was to be shadowing Ariah in her work. “I thought you said she might actually be cut out for smithing.”

                “ _Might_ being the operative word. She set her clothes on fire. Twice.”

                “She _what_?!”

                “ _On. Fire._ ”

                “Ariah!”

                “I put her out!”

                “Andraste’s ass; you will be the death of me.”

                “Wouldn’t be my first murder.”

                “You – you’re – wha – ” Lenora sputters, glaring at the elf in exasperation. “No speaking, ever again. You don’t get to talk anymore. To anyone. Especially customers.”

                “Would _you_ speak with me, then?”

                Both women jump, spinning around to see Alistair grinning guiltily at them from the door.

                “Sweet Maker!” Lenora gasps. “Why didn’t the bell ring? Did you break my bell?”

                “Why yes, actually, I came in here specifically to break your bell.”

                “Smartass.” Ariah whispers under her breath, much to her fellow smith’s chagrin.

                “Guilty as charged.” The man’s grin morphs into a smirk, and Lenora audibly groans as she plasters on a welcoming smile.

                “What can I do for you?” She inquires, then stops short. “Don’t tell me you broke it.”

                His ears go red as he bites his lip, and Ariah snorts behind her hand.

                “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”

                “I _did not_ break my sword again. It is definitely in one piece.”

                “ _In half?_ You broke it _in half_?”

                “No, one piece. That’s what I said, right?”

                “Ser Theirin – !” Lenora starts in exasperation, ignoring Ariah as she chuckles quietly to herself.

                “Alistair.” The man interrupts stubbornly, and Lenora huffs with growing impatience.

                “ _Alistair_ ,” She grinds out. “Would you _please_ just let me make you a _new_ sword? I can repair that one, perhaps mount it, but it’s not suitable for battle.”

                “It’s not battle.” Alistair argues with a smile. “They’re patrols, and this sword is just fine.”

                “It’s broken.” Lenora points out, crossing her arms. “It’s broken and it _wouldn’t be_ if you would _stop using it_.”

                “It’s not broken, remember?” He’s pushing it now, and he knows it. He watches her take a deep breath, fixated on the way her shoulders lift, before she extends her hands without a word. He fights the laugh that’s bubbling in his chest as he retrieves the sword from his pack and places the two pieces gently in her hands. They’re wrapped carefully in one of his shirts, and he realizes a little too late that perhaps he should have used a clean one.

                “Ser – _Alistair_ ; tell me that your broken sword is not wrapped in a _bloodied_ shirt.”

                “My not broken sword is most definitely not wrapped in a bloody shirt.”

                “I will kill you. I know how to use these, you know. I _will_ kill you.”

                “It’s not my blood, if that makes you feel any better.”

                “It doesn’t!” It does, but she’s not going to admit to that. _And_ she’s going to pretend that she did _not_ just scan his body for signs of injury. She sets the halves on the counter next to Ariah and unwraps them, ignoring the déjà vu. The sword is snapped clean in two; it’s too damaged, too weathered to endure whatever it’s being used for, let alone another repair.

                “Lost cause,” Ariah mentions casually, tapping the iron with her quill. “The metal’s lost all of its integrity at this point. May as well melt it down and re-forge.”

                “I would _prefer_ to forge an entirely new sword. You know, out of steel or veridium, or silverite or anything _other_ than iron.”

                Alistair purses his lips, shuffling his feet as the blush on his ears spreads to his cheeks.

                “Let me make you a new sword, Alistair. Let me forge a proper blade so you’re not back here every week needing it fixed.” Lenora implores, turning back to him as Ariah takes the broken sword from the counter and moves it to the back room.

                “I don’t want a new sword.”

                “You _need_ a new sword.”

                “I’ll be careful this time.”

                “You said that last time.”

                “This time my fingers aren’t crossed. Look!” He waves his hands in front of him, flexing his fingers in an exuberant display as if it will convey his sincerity. Lenora sighs heavily, knowing she can’t dissuade him, despite her efforts.

                “I’ll fix the sword.” She grumbles, earning a gleeful grin and a sign of relief. “ _But_ – if you bring it back here in two pieces again, I am melting it down and turning it into a goblet, am I clear?”

                “Crystal.” He nods, his eyes crinkling in the corners in that way that makes her throat close up.

                “I’ll have it ready tomorrow. You can pick it up in the afternoon.”

                “Thank you, Lenora. Really.”

                “You’re welcome.” She shakes her head, chastising herself for giving in to him, again. She should have done away with the damn thing the last time he brought it in, but his eyes – well, there’s a reason she has three rescued dogs at home. She’s a sucker for big sad eyes.

                And when Alistair comes back four days later, after putting a sizable dent in his shield – he says his sword’s not broken, so she can’t be mad – she’s fairly certain she’s not getting rid of him, either.

* * *

                “She’s not here.”

                “What?”

                Ariah looks up from the pile of work orders with a knowing glance as she repeats herself.

                “Lenora’s not here.”

                “She’s - ? Ah, um…ok, well, I’ll just…come back? I guess?”

                “I can take it.”

                “Sorry?” He nearly trips on his own feet as he turns for the door and promptly spins back around.

                “Whatever you broke.” Ariah chuckles, shaking her head at the poor man’s hopelessness. “I can take it for you. I’ve got all of her work orders right here, anyway.”

                “That’s…a lot of work orders.” He muses, stepping towards the counter cautiously as Ariah flips through the stack.

                “That’s because she gets a lot of commissions. And because I’m not allowed to talk to the people who come in.”

                “But you can talk to me?”

                “You basically live here; you don’t count.”

                “I – I do not!”

                “You’ve been here eleven times in the past two months.”

                “That’s because the Knight-Commander hates me.”

                “That’s because you _made_ him hate you.”

                “Just what are you accusing me of, exactly?”

                “Ser Theirin!” The excitable elf draws their attention as she materializes, seemingly out of nowhere. Arryn beams brightly at him, setting her bag on the counter as he starts, and gives up on, correcting her.

                “Arryn, how are you?” He says instead.

                “Better now,” She sighs happily, fishing something from her pack as Ariah and Alistair both scrunch their faces in confusion. “I’ve been carrying this around with me all day; I kept thinking I’d lose it. I didn’t, obviously, but you know that feeling you get when you keep thinking that you’ve forgotten something and you panic and you’re just so concerned about that one little thing that everything else goes wrong because you just can’t focus and – ”

                “Arryn.”

                “Right! Sorry! Anyway, Lenora left this with me, for you.”

                “Me?” Alistair’s face blooms a vibrant shade of pink as his eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

                “She said she knew you’d be back in sooner or later, and she had to leave for Highever rather suddenly, so she didn’t get a chance to give it to you herself, but – well, here.” She holds the parchment out for him, waving it anxiously when he hesitates. It takes him a moment, but he does eventually take the note, much to Arryn’s relief.

                He frowns as he unfolds it, then furrows his brow and shakes his head.

                “What?” Arryn bounces. “What does it say?”

                “It’s a number.” He deadpans, pursing his lips. “1352.”

                Ariah’s eyebrow quirks as she returns to the work orders, shuffling through them before pulling one from the stack. She gets up without a word, brushing past Arryn and ignoring her exuberant questions. Two minutes in the back room, and she’s really considering riding up to Highever herself to give her friend a swift kick in the ass. Alistair is bouncing on the balls of his feet when she returns, and Arryn is slowly killing him with her endless list of guesses.

                Her lips shut tight when Ariah finally emerges from the back, and they twist into a brilliant smile when she sees what the smith has brought with her.

                “She told me this was for one of the King’s knights. It’s volcanic aurum.”

                “It’s _what_?!”

                “You heard me, Templar _recruit._ Volcanic aurum; imported from the ass end of Orlais.”

                “I – I can’t take that – I can’t – ”

                “You can, and you will.” She shoves the blade into his hands, watching him fumble to grip at it. He holds it like it’s made of glass, and not the strongest metal in southern Thedas. “And if you break it,” She threatens, her honey eyes ablaze with her sincerity. “I will use the pieces to gouge your eyes out.”

                He nods quickly, knowing she could and would, if given the chance. He’s not quite sure what to say, or do, and he realizes abruptly that he’s forgotten to breathe. Volcanic aurum. She forged a blade from volcanic aurum, for him. For him. She – _she_ – sweet Maker, he _is_ hopeless.

                “She’ll be back at the end of the week.” Ariah speaks again, looking at him pointedly. “Perhaps,” Her eyes bore into his skull, scanning his brain for activity. “You should thank her in person, yeah?”

                He nods, again.

                And then spends four days practicing every way to say ‘thank you’. None of them are right.

                He’s hopeless.

* * *

                “I swear, he didn’t stop. Not even for a second. Literally the entire ride back. I don’t even think he breathed, just… _talked_.”

                “And you brought him back _here_? You know Arryn is still upstairs, right?”

                “He’s good with enchantment; do you know how much more we can charge for _enchanted_ equipment?”

                “If he sets anything on fire, I swear to – ”

                The bell chimes again, and the women halt their conversation to watch the head of blond hair stride into the smithy. He lacks his usual shuffling, his nerves quieted and his hands still. He’s not nervous, and that makes Lenora nervous. She puts on a stern face and takes a deep breath, and dreads what’s coming.

                “ _Alistair Theirin_ ,” She starts brashly. “I swear to the Maker, if you’ve broken – ”

                His hands frame her face and his lips trap any remaining words against her own, and that’s good because she can’t remember what she was saying. He’s kissing her and his lips are so soft and _he’s kissing her_ and – and his thumbs brush her cheeks as he pulls away, but she takes another breath, grabs his shirt and pulls him back. Because his hands are rough, but his lips are like goddamn rose petals and she’s _kissing him back_.

                She feels him smile against her mouth, his hands entangling themselves in her hair as he breathes her in like he needs her to live. She feels a flutter, an actual, honest-to-the-Maker flutter, and she sighs in absolute bliss. His hands are rough and his lips are soft and her heart is fluttering and she is _hopeless_.

                She’s hopeless.

                He’s hopeless.

                They’re two hopeless pieces of the same whole.

                But they’re not broken, and they don’t need fixing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from So Easy by Phillip Phillips


End file.
